Embedded Files
Not feeling any of these from details from these chapters? Go back to the work we did about “boxing” in our identity and classifications. This one is great to use for conflict and that micro vs macro essential question.
Assigned _______. Due _________.
If you complete it, it's an automatic 100. This is about the process right now not the finished product. The more you write, the easier it is to write, the more powerful your writing becomes, and the more you care about what you're saying and how you're saying it.
Choose any option (see me if you're stuck or have other ideas), and push yourself to write until it feels finished (I don't like to set minimums or maximums because then your brain automatically aims for that and it gets in the way of just focusing on the writing, you'll know when the writing is done, but please aim for over 1 page).
Make sure to choose a title for the writing (this is part of your job to frame the writing, make meaning, and hook the reader).
My example
Placement
I never knew for sure growing up that I would be a teacher; I just knew that I liked writing and that I wanted a career that I thought genuinely “made a difference”. By the time I hit college as an English major it just made sense. I’m not naïve enough to think that one teacher solves it all but anyone else is naïve if they think one teacher isn’t a part of the solution.
But change has never suited me comfortably. Societal progress is exciting but personal change has always exacerbated my introversion. My go-to defense mechanisms always ready the moment I enter a room: averted eyes fastened to the ground, sweaty palms from a busy mind, hands buried in front pockets, and shoulders slouched forward to ward off well-intentioned strangers.
“And you want to be a teacher?” my peers would ask when I explained my introversion in education classes.
“Definitely. It’ll be different.” I had assured myself.
I made my request to Arcadia and the placement was set: Martin Luther King Jr. High School. Arcadia had provided a bare contact sheet with a name, e-mail address, and room number with directions to contact my provided cooperating teacher before the school year began. Frances Daly. Was that a man or a woman?
I can still remember all of the vivid details stepping off that bus to meet with Fran. It was the peak of summer and it was another hot day. I had watched through the SEPTA window, anxiously unsure of when to get off. First a field passed and then the façade of the building with Martin Luther King High School lettering and the Langston Hughes mural appeared. I stepped into the bright August sun, and reminded myself to take a breath. Shards of broken glass crunched under my nervous step as I walked through the parking lot. I didn’t see an obvious main entrance. I walked around the school searching for a way in. Each step made me question what I was doing. In the approaching distance, summer school students streamed out of a side door and spilled into the parking lot. Shouting. Shit talking. A circle formed and fistfights broke out. I kept my distance and kept searching for the entrance. Was it too late to change placements? Or professions? Damn my idealism.
I made a guess at an entrance. I passed an open window for the art room and a student inside teased “cowabunga dude” as I tried to shield my eyes behind my long hair. King is a school that is 99% African American. What made me qualified to be here?
I let my doubts churn on but kept my feet moving too. I had discovered the entrance but it provided no reassurance. Two intimidating metal detectors and three lackadaisical security guards greeted me past the four metal doors. I gulped. I asked again, if this time, perhaps I had bit off more than I could chew. I felt intimidated and out of my depth. Requesting a placement in the city had surely been a mistake. I knew about the “white savior” mentality but I was so sure I had requested being here for all the right reasons. How would I fit here? What was I thinking? Even in moments we realize can be monumental, we still often fail to grasp at their actual gravity. I wandered the deserted hallways and imagined the chaos waiting to be unlocked in a few weeks like Pandora’s box. Two stories and enough space to house over 2,000 teens. Lockers lined every turn and stretched down the long and desolate hallways.
I was a few minutes late when I finally traipsed into the right corridor and saw Fran’s room number towering above me. I hesitated at the door, like an awkward party guest regretting ringing the bell.
“Eric?” Fran had turned to greet me, hearing my scuffling feet approach.
Something changed. She put me at ease instantly. More than being unassuming. More than her instant smile, offering of a handshake, or warmness in her voice. There was something that couldn’t be quantified but it was vital. My panic eroded like sand pulled away by rushing undertow. I sensed I was in good hands.
Looking back, that was the greatest gift you could ask for as a prospective teacher. I don’t know how I knew that to be true in just a few minutes, but I knew. And it made all the difference.
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